Summer at Sunset: (The Summer Series Book 2) Read online

  Richard’s connected with the ball a total of two times—first, sending it soaring into the back of a moving golf cart, and then launching it straight into the pond. Right now he looks like he’s trying to hack something to death in the grass. I don’t know what my dad was thinking dragging Richard out here. The guy is a nervous wreck. To help loosen him up, I suggested that we stop for cocktails on the way here—nine a.m. Manhattans never hurt anybody—but apparently even that wasn’t enough to take the edge off. In regard to his golf game, I suspect it may have made things worse.

  I rub the back of my neck and force a smile at the foursome waiting behind us. They’re glaring at each of us in turn, and at Richard in particular. To a resident of Sunset Havens, there is only one thing worse than being stuck behind an inexperienced golfer, and that is being stuck behind an inexperienced golfer who isn’t a permanent resident.

  The old folks aren’t exactly huge fans of outsiders. If you don’t live here year round they call you names like Snowbird (someone who comes down for the winter) or Snowflake (someone who comes down randomly throughout the year), or worse. What’s worse than Snowflake or Snowbird? Well, if you were to come down for the winter, get drunk, and drive your golf cart off a bridge, the permanent residents might take to Facebook and type such things as, “You can’t fix stupid,” or “Darwinism at work.” Or even worse, they might just type a series of LOL’s—blatantly rejoicing in the fact that you’re dead.

  Obviously, they don’t say those things about me. They love me here. I light this place up, snowflake or not.

  Usually.

  At the moment, I’m finding it somewhat difficult to cope. There are no women in the group behind us. Nobody to appreciate the way my butt looks in these completely non-breathable pants. Nobody to chit-chat with about lemon squares or what happened on last night’s episode of The Bachelor. There are just four crotchety old men, wearing—I’m not going to lie—some really nice argyle pants, who have nothing better to do except stand around a golf course giving my future father-in-law the stink eye.

  I’ve got to do something.

  “Rich,” I say, stopping him before he can take another chunk out of the grass. “Why don’t you take it easy for the rest of the round? Have a seat in the cart. Here, take my phone. You like Sudoku?” I gently pry the club out of his hands and lead him back to the golf cart. He looks at me, wild-eyed but grateful. I think he might be delirious. “Have some water, too. You’ve got to stay hydrated out here.”

  “I’m sorry I’m such a lousy golfer,” he says, taking a drink. “I tried to tell your dad that I’ve never golfed before, except for the miniature kind. I’m an expert at the windmill.” He mimes a golf swing with his open water bottle, spraying it all over me.

  “Don’t be sorry at all,” I say, mopping my face with a towel. “It takes a lot of practice to keep up with my father. He’s out here every single day.” We both watch as my dad hits the ball almost onto the green. Richard lets out a whistle, then he sinks into the cart looking completely spent.

  Eric saunters up to the tee and cracks his knuckles. He takes a few practice swings, then stops to watch a large bird flutter up into a tree. He smiles at the group behind us and points to the bird. Then he slowly takes his phone out of his back pocket and snaps a picture.

  “Aw, come on!” yells one of the guys behind us. “We’re not here to bird watch!”

  I laugh. That’s Eric, defending his father in his own special way.

  “Is that a bald eagle?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, man. I think it might be your classic North American honey buzzard.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud!” shouts a second guy. “A North American what?!”

  I nod at Eric—indicating mission accomplished—and then motion for him to hurry up and take his shot before somebody has a stroke. He does a series of leisurely warm-up stretches, then misses the ball four times in a row.

  “Aw, Jesus!” The first guy throws his club on the ground and gets back into his golf cart.

  “So, Rich,” I say, clearing my throat. “Is there anything can we do today that you would actually enjoy?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  Richard glances around as if he’s going to find a Sears or a Radio Shack out here on the links. Finding neither, he looks down at the steering wheel, and then over at the ignition.

  “Well, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I think I might like to try driving the golf cart.”

  “Oh,” I say. “My dad’s golf cart?”

  A vision of Richard in Bermuda, crashing his scooter through a flock of chickens and a fire hydrant, passes through my mind. That was only two short years ago, and I don’t believe he’s had many opportunities for improvement.

  “It’s a real beauty.”

  “It is...it is,” I say, slowly. My dad’s golf cart is such a beauty because it cost me twenty grand to have it custom built for his birthday. It’s been featured in front page news articles about life at Sunset Havens. It’s my father’s pride and joy. “I should probably just check with my dad first, you know?”

  I look around, but don’t see him anywhere. Then I spot him about two hundred yards away, already lining up his next shot. He didn’t even bother waiting for any of us. He was the one who forced Richard out here in the first place, and now he doesn’t even bother checking in to make sure everything’s okay? An unfamiliar wave of annoyance at my father washes over me. I wonder if this is how Summer feels all the time.

  “You know what?” I say. “It’s fine. He won’t mind. Why don’t you wait for us to finish up, and then drive over and meet us at the next hole?”

  I show him the gas, the brake, and the horn, and then I head over to take my shot. Richard waits until we finish putting, before slowly starting to make his way down the cart path. Dad’s so busy telling Eric and I everything that’s wrong with our golf swings—I’ve got a baseball swing that I’ve been hearing about since I was seven—that he doesn’t even notice his cart driving away. Not until Richard toots the horn.

  “What the—” asks Dad, looking up. “Why is he...who said he could...”

  “I did,” I say. “He wasn’t having any fun golfing, so I told him he could drive the cart. Driving a golf cart is part of the full Havens experience, right?”

  At the sound of his own words being parroted back at him, Dad’s look of horror slowly morphs into a reluctant consent. We start walking toward the next hole, while Eric follows along behind Richard.

  “He’s really not having a good time?” asks Dad.

  “Nope.”

  “But how can anyone not have a good time here? We’re in paradise!”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Dad,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m just the messenger, anyway. And the message says that golf is not even close to being Richard’s idea of a good time.”

  Dad frowns. “I’ll never understand those two. Richard and Joan. Nice enough people, don’t get me wrong. Just so...nervous. I mean, what do they do for a good time?”

  “I don’t know,” I laugh, rubbing my hands over my face. “I spent a week on a cruise ship with them, and I still don’t have the answer. Summer’s been a wreck these past few weeks, worrying about how they would fit in down here.”

  “Poor, girl,” says Dad. “Okay, fine. Maybe golf isn’t his thing, but we’ll still show them a good time. Look, he’s having fun right now. He’s already there, he’s—”

  “Picking up speed,” I say.

  Dad stops walking and squints. “Is he?”

  “Um, yeah. Quite a bit, too.”

  “Dear, God,” says Dad, breaking into a jog. “You’re right. Richard!” Dad starts waving his arms in the air. “Slow down!”

  But he doesn’t slow down. It’s a downhill path, so he just keeps picking up speed and getting further and further away, winding off into the distance like a character in a Roadrunner cartoon. Eric’s laying on the horn now—suddenly the Beverly Hil
ls Cop theme song doesn’t seem like such a good choice—but Richard doesn’t seem to hear.

  “I think something’s wrong,” I say, jogging alongside my father and starting to panic. “Like, with the brakes!”

  “Shit!” Dad drops his clubs and takes off running toward his golf cart. I follow, trying to ignore the roar of laughter from the foursome behind us. We catch up in time to see Richard veer sharply to the left and drive up onto a hilly patch of grass. He must have assumed that the grass would slow him down. And it might have, if not for the fact that the other side slopes sharply downward into six large sand bunkers.

  We watch, helpless, as Richard coasts full speed to the crest of the hill. He shoots off the other side, cutting through the air like a dune buggy, and lands in the sand pit with a sickening thud.

  And then he keeps going.

  Why the sand isn’t slowing him down is beyond me. Apparently Dad’s golf cart is more badass than we thought. He slams through pit after pit until finally reaching the green where a foursome, finishing up their putts, screams and jumps out of the way. And then Richard keeps right on going.

  He’s heading straight for the pond, actually.

  Dad is manic. He runs after the cart, slipping and sliding down the sand traps. Eric’s abandoned my golf cart and joined me at the top of the hill. We look at each other, then we follow. Not that there’s anything we can do if we catch up. But, we can’t just stand here.

  “Get out of the cart!” I shout.

  “Jump!” yells Eric.

  “Abandon ship!” screams Dad.

  But it’s no use. There is no way Richard Hartwell is jumping out of a moving vehicle. My entire future flashes before my eyes. Worst case scenario, I’ve indirectly murdered my fiancée’s father. Best case scenario, he survives and Summer calls off the wedding anyway. Because, sure, I can neutralize the situation whenever her mom is freaking out about something pointless, and I can rescue Richard whenever he’s stuck in an awkward conversation. But when it came down to life and death and she asked me to do one simple thing—to look out for her father—I completely failed her.

  I let her father drive into a fucking lake.

  The tires hit the water with a splash, and the painted yellow and orange flames quickly become submerged. In another instant I’m in the water, pulling Richard out of the cart and heaving the both of us up onto the grass. Panting, I look back at the cart, but it’s already gone. Dad is on his knees at the edge of the water, swearing. Possibly crying.

  I look down at Richard and notice that he’s fumbling around trying to unzip his fanny pack. I help him to get it open, and he pulls out his waterproof cell phone case. He takes the phone out and holds it up for me to see.

  “Still dry,” he says, then collapses onto the grass.

  12

  “Bloody golf carts,” mumbles Summer, taking a long sip of wine. “Bloody golf carts, bloody alligators, bloody old people.” She ticks each one off on her fingers and then starts tearing a piece of bread into a zillion pieces.

  She seems stressed.

  We’re out to dinner in Redwood Corral, just the two of us. Richard and Joan are back at the house, taking it easy tonight. Mom and Dad took off to Sunshine Springs with a couple of insulated mugs full of pre-made Margaritas. Dad needs to blow off some steam. He spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone with the insurance company, and taking photographs of a seemingly empty pond that, somewhere in its depths, contains one obscenely expensive golf cart.

  “Come on. It’s not so bad,” I say, pouring myself another glass of wine and looking around. We’re sitting on the outdoor patio, right next to the bar. I watch as a woman with long, blonde hair, well into her seventies, systematically makes her way down the line of male customers—laughing, flirting, checking for wedding rings. Her eyes latch onto mine. I quickly look away.

  “Not so bad?” says Summer, dropping her bread and staring at me. Not in a good way, either. Not like the time I proposed and she stared at me with the love-light in her eyes and threw her arms around my neck. No, this look is pure Joan Hartwell death stare. “What did your dad have to go and force my dad onto a golf course for, anyway? He can be so condescending sometimes. Big deal if somebody doesn’t know how to golf. We all used to live in the same neighborhood in Massachusetts, remember? Your father wasn’t always Arnold flipping Palmer.”

  I laugh. “He just gets swept up in his Shangri-La life sometimes. But I talked to him earlier, and he understands that now. And you know what? Your dad is fine. His cell phone is dry as a bone. And my dad has insurance. It could have turned out much worse. And yes, an alligator ate your wedding dress. But then you found an even better one, and you had some bonding time with your mom. If you ask me, this wedding is right on track.” I give her a wink and grab a handful of popcorn.

  She’s still staring at me, hunched expectantly over the table, as if waiting for me to say something worth listening to. I stare right back. She’s got this kind of crazy Florida hair thing happening, and this great green dress on that I’ve never seen before. I don’t know if it’s the wine, or maybe just all of the adrenaline from the day, but I’m finding her irresistible. I can’t imagine how far down her to-do list one would find the word sex right now. For Summer, I’ve learned that the stress of dealing with her parents is an anti-aphrodisiac.

  Fortunately, my sense of humor is a total aphrodisiac. This bottle of wine here on the table helps, too. I pour her a refill.

  Over the course of the meal, I watch Summer’s mood steadily improve. By the time the waiter clears our plates, she’s laughing hysterically at my impression of the four crotchety golfers behind us this morning.

  “And then he goes, For crying out loud! We’re not here to bird watch!”

  “Oh, geez,” she laughs, wiping her eyes. “I know this is terrible, and I’m only saying it because it’s over now and I know that he’s fine. But I would give anything to be able to go back in time and see my father drive into a lake.” She slaps the table with her palm. “A lake!”

  In between laughs, I reach across the table and squeeze her hands between mine. “Sum,” I say, trying to stay serious. “I know I said it before, but honestly, I’m so sorry about today. I told you I would look out for him, and I didn’t. I sent him off in that golf cart because I was annoyed with my own father. I didn’t even make sure Richard knew what he was doing.”

  “Oh, stop,” she says, squeezing my hands back. “It wasn’t your fault. Nobody could have known that the brakes were going to go. Besides, this is just what happens to my parents, no matter what. Even if you’d replaced the brakes and gone over the manual page by page, he would have managed to drive the cart up a tree or something. The fire department would have had to come get him down.”

  I laugh at the visual. “We’re going to get through this week,” I say, slowly stroking her hand with my thumb. “I promise. And then, we’re off to Jamaica.”

  Her eyes light up at the mention of our honeymoon. Her faces flushes a bit.

  “Come on,” I say, after paying the check. “There’s a Journey tribute band tearing it up out there. We’re going dancing.”

  I lead her, giggling, out of the restaurant and onto the town common where the band is in the middle of “Anyway You Want It.” Hundreds of eyes—male and female—swivel toward us.

  Someone whistles, followed by, “Hey there, hot stuff!” I look left, and see Gloria of Dirty Uno fame. I wave.

  “My night just got a whole lot better!” shouts another voice. It’s Nadine from Tuesday night knitting circle, a/k/a our wedding planner. I blow her a kiss and she heads over to us.

  “Hi, Nadine,” says Summer. “I wanted to apologize again for missing my appointment this morning.”

  “Not a problem, dear,” says Nadine. “Babette told you that we rescheduled for tomorrow morning, didn’t she?”

  She’s talking to Summer, but her eyes are glued to me. She grabs both of my wrists and starts to dance in place.

  “
Um, yes,” says Summer. “Thank you for doing that. We have quite a few things left to go over.”

  “Right, right,” says Nadine, absently. “The wedding is only two weeks away!” She increases her grip on my wrists and begins pulling them roughly back and forth, attempting to make me dance like a marionette.

  “Um, actually it’s this coming weekend,” says Summer, increasing the volume of her voice and glancing nervously at me. “You know that, right?”

  “Of course,” says Nadine, waving her hand dismissively. “This Sunday. One, two, cha-cha-cha!” She bumps me right in the crotch with her pelvis.

  “Woah, hey there, Nadine,” I say, backing up a step. “You’ll have to excuse us. Tonight, I’m all hers.” I gently pry Nadine’s fingers from my wrists and motion toward Summer.

  “And our wedding is on Saturday,” says Summer. “Not Sunday.”

  “Saturday,” says Nadine. “Of course. What did I say? Sunday? Ha! I’m sorry, dear. I was just a little distracted.” She reaches over, cups my chin in her hand, and gives it a squeeze. “I’ll see you later, Grahamy Cracker.”

  “Grahamy Cracker?” says Summer, as we watch Nadine retreat into the crowd. “That’s sick.”

  “You should hear what the rest of them call me,” I mumble, pulling Summer further onto the dance floor.

  “I don’t even want to know,” she says. “I might have nightmares.”

  “Graham! Over here!”

  It seems I’m being assaulted on all fronts. I turn to find Mom’s friend Francine waving two glow sticks around like she’s directing air traffic.

  “Frannie!” I call out. “Work it, sweetheart!”

  “Stop encouraging them!” Summer hisses. “Especially Francine. That one already hates my guts.”

  “Like you should talk. You’re getting your own share of attention.” I gesture toward the front row of elderly men with their eyes glued to Summer’s legs. Several of them are wearing blue shirts with the collars popped. Even the Zumba God himself, Flavio, is here tonight. He’s doing the Cabbage Patch and staring at us.